one, two, three shots a cold basement, a cold count the sound of laughter and half-hearted attempts at conversation i feel myself loosen up and even get a bit friendly confident i have my lover at my side and it feels like everything makes sense like everything is supposed to be this way this is how people like me have fun i love how the alcohol warms and coats my throat until i feel my mother
(can I call her that?)
her hair, a flame of tangled curls and the smell of men drunk off of her and her magic radiating inside of me my colloquial tone begins to fall away as she climbs up up up and i try and try but i can’t hold her down she is suffocating me with her illness and she whispers to me in a drunken tone she tells me that this is the way to live
see all the people laughing, my dear? they aren’t sad hearing their cries boom off of their bedroom walls trying to pretend the beating of their heart is a death drum shuddering and shaking violently to the beat of the song at their early funeral no, they are loving each other and talking in their own tongue
this is the way to find me, your mother. to feel my liquid embrace. warm and sharp
so drink, my dear. drink until you pour your insides into some stranger's toilet in the early hours of the morning. you won’t worry about the fact that you just got sick, and your mind has the possibility to get sick like mine did, that every step of life could easily take a violent turn that you won't be able to stop you will be happy that your stomach is empty and you are finally finally hollowed out
the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, my dear, and the past repeats itself and i have handed you mine